


The Voice Inside Your Head

by Delphi



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Drama, M/M, Punishment, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce screws up, and there’s only one man he wants to be angry at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voice Inside Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 round of Kink Bingo. Kink: "Penance/Punishment"

He showered with the lights off, his face pressed to the cold tile as a stinging spray of hot water rained down on his back. His bruises ached and his skin burned, and he suspected the water was running pink as the dried blood washed off him. It had been a close call tonight, and he still felt like he was falling—tumbling two storeys without a net, hitting a fire escape on the way down before his grappling gun finally fired. Adrenaline coursed through him, useless now.

_Stupid._

The voice in his head was an intimate friend. It had been with him since he was a kid, but it had taken on riskier connotations in recent months since James Gordon had come back into his life. Was it crazy to hear voices? Maybe, but he had needed it back when he was off at school and alone. When he was wandering the world, nameless. He did stupid things sometimes, and he needed someone to be angry with him for it. Even in the realm of imagination, he couldn’t bear for the voice to be his father’s, and Alfred...well, Alfred wouldn’t be angry. He would be _disappointed_. So would Rachel, for that matter.

The first time it happened, he was thirteen years old and hanging upside down from a bridge above the railroad tracks on a dare, wondering if it would look like an accident if he let himself drop. Then, below the laughter of his classmates: _What exactly do you think you're doing, kid?_

It was the cop. The one who had put his father's coat on him. In hindsight, he wouldn’t need a psychiatrist to analyze that one. He was a Wayne. No one at that prep school dared to call him on anything. They all looked the other way as he spun out of control. None of them had their heads screwed on straight, and neither did anyone at the next school, or the next. That cop was the last person except for Alfred who had really looked at him since his parents died.

_What the hell do you think you were doing out there? You could have been killed!_

The shower was nearly hot enough to scald him now, pushing the duller pain down beneath the surface. He shut his eyes, his body jangling, and started to jerk off. The energy had to go somewhere.

_Typical._

He pressed his face harder again the tiles and imagined James Gordon grabbing him by the hair and slamming his face into a wall. Out of character, maybe, but that was the point. Gordon was a good cop. A good man. He didn’t rough up suspects for kicks. He kept himself under control, and that’s why it would mean something when he wrenched Bruce’s arm behind his back and pinned him flat, hissing in his ear: _I know you’re not a complete idiot, so why do you act like one?_

What if he’d gotten himself killed? Or worse. What if he’d ended up laid out on the sidewalk, unable to move, unable to keep from being unmasked? His hand sped up as he imagined Gordon dragging him off the street in the bruised and battered shape he was in, manhandling him inside, rough and angry. Face against the wall. Pinned. It wouldn’t be under the cold light of the interrogation room. It would be in the dark, in the intimate privacy of Gordon’s office, which always smelled like cigarette smoke and the bad aftershave that Gordon wore. He’d be thrown over the desk, the wind knocked out of him. Not in the suit. Not armored, protected, but half-dressed and unable to protest as his pants were yanked down.

_Is this what it’s going to take to get it through your thick head?_

A rough sound came from his throat, echoing off the tiles as he stroked himself in short, brutal twists. He braced himself against the wall, his other hand reaching back. Two fingers, wet with only water. It burned as he forced himself open.

_For God’s sake, Wayne—_

No.

_For God’s sake, Bruce—_

He could hear it: the voice subtly breaking. He imagined one cool, dry hand on his hip and the other curling hard around the back of his neck, scruffing him like an unruly dog.

_Is this what it’s going to take to make you be careful?_

Ruthless thrusts, enough to make his eyes sting. Enough to make him sorry. Hot breath on his neck. Gordon’s glasses hitting the desk as they both lost control. He swore through gritted teeth, his hips jolting mercilessly and a barely-closed cut on his side protesting as he came hard enough to feel faint. The tension in him uncoiled, leaving him heavy and loose. Slowly, he slid down to sit on the shower floor.

 _Hey._ He imagined...no, remembered the touch of a hand on his cheek. His shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand through his hair, looking up and letting the spray hit him in the face. _It's all right. It's all right._


End file.
